


For the Shopping List You Always Lose

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As their first Christmas as flatmates approaches Sherlock and John are trying to make sense of their expectations of it, and of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Shopping List You Always Lose

In some part of his brain John is aware December is here. If he removes his perception filters he can see the signs of it clearly—Christmas has long become the most exploited holiday of the modern western world. Yes, John knows it’s that time of the year…yet somehow he doesn’t. Not really. And up until now he hasn’t stopped to consider if this omission is because time ticks differently in the cocoon of madness that is 221B Baker Street or because his last Christmas in the UK, mere days before he moved in to said cocoon, was one of the worst in his life. Or indeed, if it is because he’s never been too keen on holidays, full stop. Give him a nice, nondescript date any time, that’s him. Well, he doesn’t mean it literally. Indeed, most of his best days are the exact opposite of nondescript—after all he uses words in the thousands to _describe_ them in his blog. But what he also likes about them is that they fall on dates such as 21 February, 19 July or even 6 April. Okay, "like" might be the wrong sentiment with regards to that last one.

Thing is that John is open to the possibility that anything could happen on these generic dates. (At least that has been the case since he met Sherlock, and John's whole notion of acceptable things to happen within a day had to have a reboot.) But on dates like 25 December, 1 January and his birthday…Well, it’s not about what he is or isn't expecting. It’s the opposite—on these days something’s always been expected of him. And John has never been sure he could deliver.

All of the above is being considered barely now, mere days before the holiday. The impending doom of Christmas has only just announced itself fully in the shape of a text message from his sister. “We need to make plans for the holidays,” Harry informs him in brusque style. John suddenly thinks his life could do with a few less people addressing him in the imperative, thanks very much.

He calls her while he’s walking home from the bus stop. It’s a short conversation, filled predominantly with logistics. Harry tells him she’s invited their uncle and aunt, together with their son and his family—a wife and two children—for Christmas Eve. John is expected to be there as well. And that is that. It is understood John will stay overnight. Christmas Day is driving all the way to the cemetery and back and, if last year is anything to go by, that will be followed by an even more depressing event: Christmas dinner with Harry only. John wasn’t around on most of the years when Clara was there, but on the one Christmas that the three of them spent together, his sister's partner's presence made a really nice difference.

When John walks into the flat, the first thing he sees is Sherlock sitting in his chair, reading; the second is that all the rugs are gone. John opens his mouth to enquire, but something in the quiet of the scene stops him. He stands there for a moment just watching Sherlock.

Sherlock lifts his eyes and smiles lightly as a greeting.

“What do you want to do for dinner?” he asks, putting the book aside. “There isn’t much in the fridge—well, that’s technically not true; don’t get upset, but…um…Anyway. There isn’t food as such. Shall we eat out?”

John opens his mouth, this time to ask after the content of the fridge, but again his query dies on his tongue, for reasons he can’t quite fathom. He probably just isn’t feeling up for it, he thinks. Up for anything that would disturb the sudden sense of peace in the place.

Or rather in him as he got in.

John also finds that it doesn’t actually matter that much, any of it: the missing rugs and their undoubtedly gruesome fate or the borderline illegal items and/or substances, which have taken residence in their kitchen electrical equipment. What matters, what John understands, because he’s become quite fluent in Sherlockian, is that his flatmate is in one of his calm moods, not so rare as John used to believe. And that Sherlock is offering to compensate John for depriving him of his dinner.

He smiles back at Sherlock, rubs his eyes and forehead, and says, “Let’s order some Indian.” Sherlock scans his face for a fleeting second and is up, rummaging through the papers on the fireplace mantelpiece, looking for the relevant brochure. John drops in his own chair, feeling inexplicably grateful that someone—that Sherlock—is taking charge: finding brochures, dialling numbers and, judging by what John’s ear catch, wonderfully ordering exactly what John wants.

***

The subject of Christmas comes up after they’ve eaten their food. John is watching some telly with one eye. Sherlock completes the pair with one of his own, while continuing to read his book with the other.

“Is your sister alright?”

John is startled by Sherlock’s voice as much as by the question. His vocal cords start forming a “How…” but yet again he lets it pass; his belly is too warm and full. And he already knows the how; he knows the principal and more often than not he wants to know the concrete mechanics of each individual occurrence. But not tonight. Tonight he is content to just say, “Yeah, fine…I think. We didn’t speak much.”

“Hm.”

They look at each other intently for a long moment. John sighs at the silent exchange; only with Sherlock it is so loaded. Then he sighs again, because he isn’t half as worried as he should be at the intuitive fluency with which he interprets what hasn’t been worded out.

“She wanted to make plans for Christmas,” he says.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Pause. John looks sideways to Sherlock, to find him looking at the TV screen.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” John asks.

“I’m not sure yet.”

John fully expects a small but passionate display of sarcasm at the prospect of Mycroft’s abhorrent company. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. But Sherlock continues to look at the screen in silence. John tries again, although he isn’t sure why. Small talk, he thinks.

“What are your options? What do you usually do?”

“I didn’t think that what I usually—I usually have to suffer through—It doesn’t matter…Er.” Sherlock finishes eloquently, looking slightly harassed. John frowns.

“That…didn’t make much sense. What are you doing this year then?”

Sherlock finally darts his eyes to John’s before returning them resolutely to the TV.

“Oh, you know, this and that. Christmas dinner, that sort of thing.”

Before John has the chance to point that this still doesn’t tell him much about Sherlock’s plans, his flatmate asks him, “When are you going to Harry’s?”

“Oh, Christmas Eve,” John says. “That is I need to be there _for_ Christmas Eve. I’ll probably have to leave midday, though; getting there will be trying at best.”

Sherlock hums his concurrence, his face unreadable.

John gawks just a wee bit at him, like he does when he can’t help himself. He feels that he should be asking something or that he should be saying something and yet it evades him.

Abruptly, he realizes it’s been a funny sort of evening. He wonders if he came in already in an odd mood or if Sherlock was in his own funny mood and John has picked it up. Another thing he promptly avoids being bothered about—the fluid way with which they sometimes morph into each other’s moods. If he were a girl, he’d say this happened when they were particularly connected. Ha, if they were girls their periods would have synchronized months ago. Jesus Christ, that’s a disturbing thought.

Yes, decidedly funny evening.

John clears his throat and gets back to the safer subject of Christmas.

“We need to tell Mrs Hudson when we’ll be both gone and see what her plans are,” he says. “I probably won’t be coming back before the evening on the twenty-sixth, God help me and—”

“I won’t be here until the twenty-sixth, either,” says Sherlock hurriedly, sounding vaguely defensive.

“Right. Okay. Erm, we’ll tell her that then,” John replies and allows himself a quick worried glance at Sherlock’s face. Yep, the corners of the bottom lip are just that bit on the sulking side. What was that all about? And he thought Christmas was a safer topic. There is obviously nothing good about the bloody holiday.

***

During the two weeks between their bizarre conversation and the twenty-fourth there are hardly any indications a change of routine is coming. John tries to approach the topic by mentioning a joint gift for Mrs Hudson, to which Sherlock replies, “Fine, fine; you get her something and I’ll give you the money.” There is also a small to medium-size row on the subject of _not_ declining invitations for Christmas parties on John’s behalf, when said invitations are specifically addressed to both the occupants of 221B Baker Street. Within the argument it transpires that “declining” is a rather fancy word in this case, since what Sherlock actually did with the Yard’s invitation to their Christmas party is to just mutely throw it away. If it wasn’t for Lestrade’s personal courtesy to invite the two men to his team’s informal Christmas drinks, John is sure he wouldn’t have even known he’d missed out on anything.

“Unlike you, I actually like interacting with people outside of my work, you know!” he tells Sherlock crossly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you’re upset you won’t spend three to four hours of your life, which incidentally you will never be able to get back, in the company of boring people you neither know nor would want to know, if you had any sense.”

“If I had any sense, I wouldn’t—” John manages to bite his tongue and not say what he was about to say. Sherlock, being Sherlock, doesn’t need to hear it to know what it is, and only tells him evenly, mood shifting to an entirely different, much more subdued part of the spectrum.

“Your need for interaction with other people will be duly satisfied in a few days.”

John is left feeling peculiarly guilty for something which could clearly be identified as a faux pas on Sherlock’s part, dammit. And John didn’t even want to go to the blasted party—he argued the matter of principal.

This argument is the only time in which John pursues a tricky line of conversation. Sherlock’s mellow mood has lasted and when John goes to bed that night he regrets the blot this argument has left on the flag of domestic peace. He really does. He doesn't want to be cross with Sherlock right now. He doesn't want tension, not one bit. However, on the following morning Sherlock meets him in the kitchen, avoiding his eyes but smiling and mumbling about cups of tea. It takes John several long seconds of processing, followed by some very genuine staring at Sherlock with large puppy eyes—not that John would _ever_ own he is capable of puppy eyes—upon discovery that the mentioned cups of tea are intended to be produced by Sherlock himself. John automatically goes to the kitchen, too, and the two make each other the most awkward cups of hot beverages in the history of their household.

Later Sherlock pushes John’s jacket in his hands and whisks him to a seriously disturbing art installation, involving rotating human and animal organs. Then they stop for a meal in a nice little café, Sherlock poking excitedly at the kidneys in John’s pie, making allusions to what they’ve just seen and enthusing something or other about urine—at which point the lunch becomes way too informative for John’s liking. Sherlock produces a small brownish paper bag and bashfully pushes it in John’s direction across the table. John opens it to discover a fridge magnet in the anatomic shape of a human heart, obviously purchased at the exhibition. “For the shopping list you always lose,” Sherlock says with no less than three clearings of his throat.

John refrains himself from pointing out that when the list is lost it’s not by him. It is at this point that he realizes the day is Sherlock’s equivalent of throwing himself at John’s feet as means of apology for the "declined" invitation, and the subsequent argument.

And that Sherlock seems to want to just… _spend time_ with John?

John doesn't go to the Surgery’s Christmas party. He’ll have to come up with a silly excuse, but he just can’t be bothered. And he doesn’t feel he knows Lestrade’s team well enough or, for that matter, that he likes them well enough, to join them for informal drinks. Besides, Sherlock has obviously never gone to any of these social events and the thought of being there without him doesn't sit well with John. He could imagine himself practically burning holes with his eyes into a Sherlock-shaped empty space by his side the whole night. So no Christmas drinks are had with policemen, doctors or any other groups of professionals. John is simply waiting for all of this to be over so that phase two starts—when he goes to Harry’s, ploughs through the few days, and finally returns home and gets on with his life. At least the pressure of having to do something _fun_ for the New Year’s is no longer the same, now that he doesn’t call himself young.

***

Sherlock’s Christmas plans become transparent a couple of days before Christmas Eve. John walks in from work to find his flatmate and the latter’s sibling glaring daggers at each other.

“Mycroft was just leaving, John, don’t close the door,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft raises the inner corner of his left eyebrow and turns to face John, who is standing at the door, musing he might as well be caught in a proper snow storm—he quite likes snow.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft says. “How are you? Looking forward to some festive time with your family?”

John has the uncomfortable feeling that somehow, although all data points to the contrary, the line is not aimed at him. He still replies.

“Oh, you know how it is, family…”

“Ye-e-s,” Mycroft drags, smiling as if he has recently bought the “Smiling for Dummies” manual and made use of it. “One can’t choose one’s family unfortunately. But at least one can choose one's... friends.”

“Spare us the fruits from your fountain of wisdom, Mycroft,” Sherlock snaps. “I shall see you on Friday night.”

Mycroft nods at John, wishing him a “wonderful Christmas time” and glides out of the premises.

“So, you’re going to spend Christmas with your family? That’s nice.” John starts conversationally, eager to restore the atmosphere in their home, until he realizes of whose family he is actually talking about.

Sherlock has changed expressions so swiftly—angry to...wistful?—that John’s brain needs to wear a bandage for the strain to follow him.

“This is what people do on Christmas, isn’t it?” Sherlock says quietly. “Spend it with their families.”

And right at this moment John feels sorry, quite sorry. But it is only after they have some dinner and talk about one of Sherlock’s old cases—Sherlock’s face ceasing to be so overcast—and when John is in the quiet of his bedroom, that he wonders _why_ he was actually feeling sorry; of whom, too. It strangely reminds him of that time when he was ten, away on a summer holiday with his family at a camping side. There was another family there that befriended them. One morning John woke up to find everyone had gone to the lake without him, leaving him behind with his grandmother.

He rubs his eyes, switches off the light and wills the jolly days of the festive season to move faster.

***

“I’m off then,” John says unnecessarily, standing at the sitting room door, a picture of a departing man. Sherlock tilts his head backwards and looks at him upside down, not moving from the sofa where he’s been lying the entire morning. John left his packing for today, tidying up through his belongings in the process—both things out of character. He never packed in the last moment and when he did tidy up his stuff, he did it properly. He now regrets the wasted morning and wishes he’d spent it downstairs instead. He wonders if Sherlock is in a funny mood again. He was the night before. Quiet. John would have called it even “gentle” if he didn’t find the description preposterous. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do gentle. Well, only when he is deeply asleep. And when John is being challenged by feats of modern technology. Oh, and when—never mind. No, Sherlock doesn’t do gentle, but last night he _was_ odd. Well, odder.

Standing at the door, ready to go, John really gets it—that he is going away for another dreary Christmas with his relatives, and that he is not going to see Sherlock for a few days. They’ve parted before for some days here and there. But now John thinks _I should have come downstairs this morning and spent time with him before going way_. And then, _This is ridiculous! I spend far too much time with him. I spent all my time last night with him for God’s sake_.  Yet somehow this is different. His mind doesn’t have the chance to check why, because Sherlock makes a graceful succession of movements and is standing in front of him, looking somehow thinner and— there’s that word again—gentle. John feels guilty. Has he insisted enough on food being eaten regularly? Has he bought enough fruit lately? He should have bought some vitamins and made Sherlock do a whole course. John doesn’t know what to do with his recent guilt trips and he thumps this one down to fall into the abyss where all the unexamined goes.

“Enjoy your time, John,” Sherlock says, serious. “Say hello to the lovely Harriet.”

John smiles at Sherlock’s half-hearted attempt of sarcasm. “Thank you,” he replies. “Please, feel free to not say anything to Mycroft from me.” At least the smile _that_ evokes on Sherlock’s face is whole-hearted.

“Right. I’ll see you on Boxing day then,” John adds and lifts his overnight bag on his shoulder. His eyes scan the room in a fraction of a second and he is staggered how much he doesn’t want to go. He knew he didn’t like holidays and he knew last year’s Christmas was bad—he was so lost, so lonely amongst his relatives, so _out of place_ —but his own reaction now surprises him with its ferocity. His eyes fall back on his flatmate and John wants to say something nice to him, _really_ nice. Or reach and give Sherlock a tap on the arm, tell him that John will be back in a couple of days. Only that John isn’t sure if he would be reassuring Sherlock or himself. Does Sherlock need reassurance really? He isn’t going to be home, either, and he is following his usual plans. Sherlock hasn’t changed his routine; nothing is different for Sherlock so he doesn’t need to be reassured for something that was never a problem in the first place, right? Right?

But impulses are stubborn little things and needs are their big siblings, and John _still_ wants to say something nice to Sherlock. Sherlock, who is standing in front of him, lanky and young, and is actually following John’s lead on this. _He doesn’t know how this is done_ , it dawns at John. _He doesn’t know how to part with people he has grown close to without any animosity._ John’s heart drenches in something bittersweet and tugs down in his chest. He clears his throat and says the nicest, most common thing in the world.

“I’ll give you a call when I get there. Answer your phone.”

Sherlock simply nods, but it’s a firm nod. Then John gives him a small smile, turns and leaves.

***

Quick look—nothing.

 _And_ it’s only eight o’clock. John feels like crawling out of his skull. _That’s how Sherlock got his skull,_ John has a sudden illumination. The owner of the skull had to spend Christmas with his family; he saw it was only eight o’clock and he simply couldn’t face it any more.

At this point John can’t even face the _thought_ of the following two hours of incessant chatter and the hypocrisy people save for their relatives only. “George is such an angel.” or “Ah, no one can blame you for taking advantage, really, I mean he should have listened to you about that project in the first place.” George is, in this case, annoying and rather narrow-minded for a thirteen-year old, his face suddenly reminding John of the boy who was the son of Harry Potter’s carers. The next moment John makes a mental note to check if Sherlock knows about _Harry Potter_. It says something about his current predicament that the idea of a _Harry Potter_ movie-marathon with a man, incapable of suspending disbelief, is deeply attractive.

As for Harriet’s blindingly impudent justification of something as immoral as stealing clients under your hard-working colleague’s nose, it does nothing to endear Caroline to him. Caroline is the clients’ thief. Although to be fair John took an instant dislike to the bawdy and sort of… gurgling woman his sister introduced as “my girlfriend Caroline” within twenty seconds of the opening of the front door. Right. Not “lover”, nor something more subtle like “friend”—it means Harry wants to convince herself this is serious. Not “ _new_ girlfriend”, either, so Caroline has insecurity issues and Harry has learnt her lesson. Been together for less than a month. Harry was away abroad for several weeks before that. Just before she left, she and John had met and there had been the unmistakable look of a single woman all over her: the unkept roots of her hair, the dull skin, the make-up, done more as a service to society rather than to herself. So she’s been with Caroline a month at the most. The other woman is post-break up, too, judging by her own make-up, too heavy to be decorative—it’s there to cover eyes, which until recently hadn’t been resting or tearless. But it’s mostly in the way her clothes are hanging on her, just like the skin on her cheeks is somewhat…looser, as if borrowed from a larger face. As if both body and face are meant to be fuller.

The deductions didn’t happen until John had a chance to sit down and have a proper look at Caroline. And it was another few minutes until he realized what he’d just done. The room had briefly got brighter at the image of Sherlock’s proud face. Of course, what took John deliberation and time, would have taken Sherlock mere seconds. Still, Sherlock has always had patience for John’s attempts to observe—and unlike with everyone else, he actually focuses on John _trying_ rather than on the results. Countless times John have been wrong about this thing or the other, yet Sherlock is always pleased with his effort, almost charmed in some small way. Sherlock’s face at John’s suggestion that the cat’s nails had got the tetanus into Connie Prince’s bloodstream…Sherlock smiled and called the idea “lovely”. The extent of Sherlock’s indulgence became evident shortly afterwards, when John realized Sherlock had known John was wrong all long. Anyone else would have got a deadpan face for their wrong conclusions, or if they were particularly unfavoured, a curled lip of disdain. But John—John got praise.

But here with Caroline John happens to also be right. Harry whispered hurriedly the short story of her and Caroline’s affair, while she and John were busy in the kitchen. Her words confirmed John’s deductions as spot on. Unfortunately they also confirmed his suspicions that this wouldn’t last, because none of the parties were in it for the right reasons. But John didn’t say anything. He was sure there’d be plenty of minefields and shifty topics of conversation as it was.

It isn’t even the putting on an interested front and being falsely nice that bothers John the most. Although at some point he actually catches himself longing for Sherlock’s disregard of anything but the truth—often a cause for pain and embarrassment, but at the moment sought, wanted, needed. No, it’s that special brand of deep discomfort to the point of pain, that one experiences only when one is not quite the normal functioning type and is caught in the midst of one’s family. Either with another selection of dysfunctional types or with a selection of people so normal that one’s oddities become glaring. In the case of John’s family, it’s deceptively the latter, but if you know where to look, you understand that, in fact, it’s the former. His sister is a drinker, Caroline has a very dubious moral compass, his cousin Fred married his wife Ana through the Internet via the closest to a legitimate “Bride to order” system John had ever seen. And their son is like that obnoxious boy from Harry Potter, for goodness sake. The stuff of nightmares, all of them.

But John isn’t a confrontational person per se; he’d rather avoid clashes and awkwardness in true British fashion. So he would have sat there and let the minutes tick their taunts slowly in his head—if that very same reluctance to clash wasn’t challenged by the unhealthy interest everyone has got in his living arrangements. There have already been a number of questions and carelessly thrown assumptions about Sherlock, which John has found himself repeatedly disarming while they were still in flight. Over the last year since they moved in together privately John has been infuriated, upset, disappointed, fed up, hurt with and rather rude to Sherlock. But it’s his own head and Sherlock is sort of, in a way, well, he is his _own_ Sherlock. That somehow makes it okay, because John knows Sherlock for real, he knows who he is and what makes him the way he is, and despite what John likes to convince himself to believe occasionally (mainly in an effort to disprove his “total doormat” status in his own eyes), John accepts Sherlock and _likes_ him, that’s right! And what isn’t on is some people to pry and be insensitive about the most brilliant man John’s ever met.

God, they’re so nosey, yet so lacking imagination. Their concern for John’s life-style is so maudlin and fake, showing their own incredibly small, dull lives that John wishes they just assumed he and Sherlock were together _that way_ , like everyone else does, and got their teeth into that instead. Not that the idea doesn’t hang in the air all the time. John supposes the fact that the only time his eyes flash and his face gets animated is when he’s talking about his mad friend, doesn’t help. But he couldn’t care less.

At the moment they’ve moved on to plumbing and tiles. John’s got a bit of respite, before one of them inevitably turns to him in an attempt to include him in the conversation and enquires about the bathroom at 221B Baker Street. John’s approaching the end of his tether and in a dark, gleeful manner prepares to tell them that there isn’t much of a point in redecorating a place that on occasion doubles as storage for vital human organs (dead) as well as dangerous chemicals (alive and bubbling).

It’s eight-fifteen. Only. He has done so well. Fifteen whole minutes. He can finally look at his mobile phone again. But he wants to avoid the attention at any cost after the incident earlier when his sister snapped at him during the drinks. “Are you on-call from the surgery, John? You’re looking at your mobile more often than one of those fucking love-struck teenagers.”

Very carefully and very inconspicuously John manoeuvres his hand into his pocket, takes the device out very slowly and after a good minute and a half, shuffles as if to rearrange the napkin in his lap and glances at the screen.

Nothing.

His other hand semi-consciously traces the outline of the small object in his other pocket.

Then, although he’s never had a mobile phone as a teenager so he wouldn’t have an actual frame of reference, John has to admit that he is acting like one. Because the only reason he isn’t texting Sherlock is the fact that, he, John, was the one to call him earlier as promised, and well, he called him _first_. He isn’t going to intrude himself. John knows it wouldn’t be an intrusion as such, but if he’s got nothing interesting to say or at the very least nothing intelligent, he couldn’t really expect Sherlock to suffer him gladly. His flatmate might treat him like a separate specimen from the rest of humanity, but there are basics such as Sherlock’s inability to tolerate small talk or his mood when in Mycroft’s company for longer than several minutes. No, John can’t text him, because quite frankly, John doesn’t have anything of consequence to say to Sherlock.

It’s only that he’s got this vague, pestering feeling that he wants to say _something_.

But if John was the first to text, it would make him look downright desperate.

***

The evening is finally over. John’s lying on his back in the guest room, thankful that both his sister and Caroline are, despite of their personalities, women with softer voices. He doesn’t think he could live through one more hour of discomfort if he had to listen to them having sex. The bed itself is taking care of keeping him unhappy—it’s too hard even for him. The covers smell of cupboard and the pillow is too soft.

 _God, I’ve turned into a grumpy old man,_ John stops in his mental tracks. _When have I got so old that all I can do is complain? When have I become so rigid that I can’t bear anything which isn’t exactly to my liking?_

But as he reaches automatically to check his phone (nothing), John counters himself as he think of the sender of the absent message. _I’m not grumpy and I’m not rigid, and I’m not old. I am none of these things when I’m with other people. When I’m with him. I moan and complain but I am never really grumpy. And I have reached such extraordinary heights of flexibility when it comes to him that I see people as dots below me. As for old—well, he doesn’t make me feel young, because one of us has to be the mature one, and let’s face it, it is never going to be him. But with him, I am so alive that it’s enough for two whole people sometimes, that’s how it is. And that’s the very opposite of the definition of old._

Sod that, he’s texting him.

11:30pm: “Are the Holmeses still in the same numbers in which they started the evening?”

11:32pm: “Trying to be morbidly funny on the holiest of days, John, really? We’re all here. Some of us will never be able to regain their mental composure, but other than that there aren’t casualties. SH”

11:33pm: “How is your sister’s new girlfriend? SH”

11:35pm: “You know it still creeps me out when you do this. She is awful.”

11:37pm: “There is nothing supernatural about it, John, it shouldn’t creep you out. Sorry about your evening. At least the wine was really good. SH”

11:39pm: “John? SH”

11:41pm: “I just lost my reply to you, because your msg arrived while I was still writing it. We can’t all type fast like robots, you know. Yes, the wine was excellent. And you’re explaining how you knew about THAT one.”

11:43pm: “Do you want the explanation now? It’s simple, but you’ll probably need every little thing spelt out for you. Best to wait until I see you again. SH”

11:44pm: “P.S. The message isn’t lost—it’s in your Drafts folder. SH”

11:47pm: “You did it again, with the interrupting. But the messages were there, as you said. And yes, explanation when I see you next. Thanks for insulting my intelligence by the way.”

11:48pm: “Your evening must have been even more hateful than mine to make you so touchy. Although the former doesn’t seem possible. SH”

11:50pm: “John. John. John. SH”

11:51pm: “In Drafts. SH”

11:54pm: “That WASN’T funny. I know where the lost msgs go now, thanks, no need to repeat. Only my phone’s been playing up and doesn’t save all of them. So because of your childishness just now I lost the msg it took me ages to type. Which said I was sorry your evening was bad.”

11:58pm: “Sherlock?”

11:59pm: “You need a new phone, a nice, user-friendly one. This one would be too complicated for anybody. Although I’m oddly attached to it. We should keep it. SH”

12:02pm: “I am quite fond of it, too, although it’s a pain. And it’s not going anywhere. Can’t afford a new phone at the moment and my contract doesn’t end for another six months.”

12:03pm: “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

12:04pm: “Merry Christmas, John.”

John looks at the screen expectantly for a few minutes but it remains dark. He doesn’t mind terribly; his eyes are now pleasantly droopy. The sheets have absorbed some of his body warmth, and the whole bed has somewhat softened under him. And the pillow isn't that bad, either.

***

 _Do people commit murder on Christmas day,_ John wonders. Apart from the obvious strangulation of a parent of choice or clubbing to death your grandfather’s brother with that nice new set of golf-sticks you’ve just got. Would the murder investigation police officer be relieved to swap the massacre of human souls at the family Christmas dinner table for the bloodshed of a crime scene or they would be pissed off for being taken away from their happy homes? Is there even such a thing as a happy home?

Sherlock wouldn’t really object being torn from his celebrations for a murder. Maybe John should do it for him as much as for himself. Although it’d be such a straightforward affair, the world’s only consulting detective would be offended John couldn’t come up with something more sophisticated.

At least thinking about murdering Caroline is making John feel marginally better.

The woman has not stopped talking. She is clearly a morning person, because her coming-from-a-broken-lantern voice has started its conquest of all that’s good at seven in the morning sharp. (John now knows there was no sex last night—there couldn’t have been. He would have _heard_.) Caroline comments, she refers to, she adds, she explains, she clarifies, she muses. She drones. It’s been getting on John’s nerves more than usual, because, well, his nerves aren’t at their best at the moment actually. But now she’s really crossing a line. John’s trying to pay respect to his parents and he and Harry need a few moments of silence, but this thick-skinned creature his sister has saddled them both with doesn’t even seem to notice. On she goes on the price of marble for tombstones and on flower arrangements. John badly wants to yell at her or stuff a handkerchief in her mouth.

Their ride back from the cemetery is filled with more of the same. Caroline has also got very cold feet and a demanding bladder so they have to stop at every petrol station on their way. This is the only time when he gets to see Harry alone, but it’s never enough for him to say what’s on his mind. John’s always needed a bit of privacy if he’s about to explode. He doesn’t have it now, because Caroline quickly returns to the car with updates from the fascinating world of trivia: the rudeness of the girl who was cleaning the toilets; how annoying the Christmas songs they keep playing everywhere are (John’s very grudgingly with her on that one); what’s the cover-story of today’s _Daily Mail_. And off they go again.

John’s looking at the monotonous scenery from the car window without seeing it. He’s trying to drown the dialogue from the front seats with his own thoughts, but it isn’t exactly _Cirque de Soleil_ in his head. He doesn’t want to be in that car with them on the way to Harry's. Suddenly he resents it with passion. But he’s stuck with it, much as he’s stuck with the whole Christmas lark. The minutes are stretching, sticky and annoying, like the chewing gum insolent teenagers slowly pull out of their mouths. His phone has remained more or less silent since his midnight exchange with Sherlock. A few text messages from friends and colleagues wishing him Merry Christmas and that’s all. Sherlock himself hasn’t texted, and it’s getting to two o’clock, and John is beginning to wonder if Sherlock would at all, today. The day is becoming surreal with alarming speed—maybe it will never end; maybe Sherlock will never text him again, ever.

After all, in spite of his much-proclaimed dislike for Mycroft, Sherlock is never bored around his exceptional brother. Or maybe there are other interesting people present there as well. Sherlock has kept himself to himself with regards to his extended family so all John could do is take a wild guess at who’ll be around the family table. But aside from family there might be other guests, too. John doesn’t need the Science of Deduction to gather Sherlock’s background and conclude there wouldn’t be random people invited for Christmas dinner. No, there’d probably be clever and knowledgeable individuals, who are able to distinguish four different types of forks and forty different types of cigars. People of the world at the very least. Why would Sherlock text John? Thank God Sherlock isn’t the most sociable individual so at least most people wouldn’t want to talk to _him_ —

And at that instance John realizes what that's all about. Oh, it is bad, really bad. It makes him feel guiltier than he’s felt for a long time. He’s just got so low that he's found it in his heart to be _glad_ people told Sherlock to piss off. Because that means all Sherlock has—to text, to call, to have any real human contact with—is John. John’s is a deeply selfish feeling, but it’s caught him so off-guard he is unable—and unwilling—to deny it. Besides, if anything it only depicts a man sadder than even Sherlock is with his social awkwardness and his loneliness. And that’s the man who needs to count on Sherlock’s isolation to have the security of his friendship.

John has never stopped and thought about what value he has for Sherlock. Correction, _that_ he knows. But he’s never asked himself why he is important to his friend. Sherlock’s deficits have always been the prize-winner in the “Difficult to be around, let alone to live with” competition. John’s made a lot of adjustments for Sherlock, and he means a lot. Both practical and psychological. No one’s made it a secret, Sherlock including, that it is at best unexpected that John has chosen to stay for as long as he has. With some people it’s come across as disbelief, with others as condescension—only another weirdo would make that choice, obviously. With a couple of people there was hope, but guarded hope, as if things could change any moment. Sherlock has never said anything, has never asked…But John knows, he _knows_ at the pit of his stomach that the bewilderment, the fear that John would leave haven’t left Sherlock. In an attempt to seek some redemption for himself, John is at least thankful he’s never, not once, taken advantage of that knowledge to gain leverage.

So the world’s found it easy to believe the freak was lucky to have John Watson’s friendship. John himself has fallen for that, too. What the world hasn’t considered is John’s luck with Sherlock. John is neither a genius nor he’s got any other impressive talents. Or useful skills. He’s a good shot and he’s a good doctor. He is loyal and he is honest, he is an honest man. He tries to be, because whatever people say about people being born with sterling characters or with honest, good hearts, people are people. It is in their default to be riddled with fears and insecurities, and all the other bits and bobs psychologists talk about. And being honest and good requires effort, daily. Yes, it’s quite a fundamental part of John’s character, he is born that way. However, life’s given him plenty of tests and John’s found everything comes with a price so he’s also _taught_ himself to be good.

But all of this is beside the point. The point is that the world is full of moderately intelligent, honest men who can handle a gun. He is nothing special. Sherlock on the other hand is nothing _but_ special. And why he would choose to be John’s friend is a bigger mystery than probably the man himself would be capable of solving. John’s just given it a go and has come to the rather humbling conclusion that it is probably only because no one else would have Sherlock for a friend.

It’s a very poignant discovery, and it happens just like it happens in real life—not in some dramatic life-changing situation. (Although John suspects for Sherlock the awareness of John’s importance came into full bloom precisely in a dramatic, life-changing situation.) It’s come to John in the middle of a car journey from one place to another, amidst a waterfall of chatter by a relative stranger.

As he’s examining his sudden bout of insecurity, John decides to go all in and check with himself what he would feel if Sherlock had enough other friends in his life to bother with John. Or indeed, if Sherlock was the one who decided to leave. As it turns out, John doesn’t like that thought at all. It is a rather nasty thought. In fact, if the ice in his chest and the twisted knot in his stomach are to serve as clues, John would have to say it is a horrible, horrible thought and frankly, he wouldn’t like to be thinking it at all anymore, or ever again.

At that moment Caroline, in a first of—well, probably in a singular occasion, helps John out. She’s just asked him something about his service in Afghanistan and John is very glad to be able to engage his mind with the new topic. But while his brain is supplying information and his mouth is transmitting it, an emotional update is taking place behind the scenes and nothing can stop it anymore.

***

They’re back at Harriet’s finally and just as John is coming up the stairs to the guest bedroom his phone beeps. John trips on the small rug at the landing, while he’s hastily retrieving the phone from his pocket and pushing the buttons to read his message.

3:02pm: “Cousin Beth’s husband might have something for me to look at. Fancy becoming a shoeshiner for a day? SH”

3:03pm: “Yes. What day?”

3:04pm: “28th or possibly 29th. You’ll also have to pretend you are incredibly stupid. Please note I am ostensibly refraining from being sarcastic here. SH”

3:06pm: “Noted. I’ll do what I can. Is the case promising?”

3:07pm: “Not enough data. I might also need you to go somewhere uninvited. SH”

3:10pm: “Is that diplomatic talk about having me breaking and entering some poor sod’s house? You’ve been around Mycroft for too long.”

3:11pm: “Any time spent with Mycroft is too long. Storage room, not house. Problem? SH”

3:12pm: “I’ll do it.”

3:17pm: “Are you all right? SH”

3:19pm: “How is the Christmas dinner coming along? SH”

3:21pm: “John? SH”

John’s been thinking. And cursing a bit. Timing, most of all, but also Sherlock’s uncanny perceptiveness. John flips through his replies and huffs. Even a child would spot the eagerness in his messages. Sherlock’s text arrived at the worst possible moment, when John still hadn’t had the chance to pull himself together and out of his vulnerability. And Sherlock is asking John to do things for him, plus for a case, and John has long loved that anyway. He has to tone it down, before the human antennae over there picks up all the signals and starts putting an image together. John types his reply firmly, aiming for breezy.

3:19pm: “Sorry, got distracted. I’m fine. The dinner is nice. It’s all good, thanks. How’s yours?”

Sherlock is probably genuinely distracted, because his reply chimes the whole of five minutes later.

3:24pm: “Fine. I’ll tell you about the case when I see you. SH”

John’s fingers hover a bit over the keys, before he closes the message browser, puts his mobile in his pocket and goes to stand by the window. His hand reaches into his other pocket automatically. He looks outside. Dusk is just a hint in the air but give it another half hour and it will claim the sharper edges of the scenery. People have kept their Christmas lights switched on and John’s eyes get gradually focused on one particularly tasteful display right across the street. It’s almost hypnotic, the slow change of colours. The curtains on the windows of the house haven’t been drawn yet and John could barely distinguish some figures—two, no, three people. There are some lamps already on indoors and their glow is orangey or yellowy; it’s warm and light. There is the outline of a Christmas tree, too; not a big one.

There are no decorations in their flat. Mrs Hudson has put up hers. She called John to help her, then they had to call Sherlock because he was tall and Mrs Hudson wouldn’t hear about John balancing on the tips of his toes on a chair. John was torn between being insulted and quite touched that where she ignored or endorsed most of their dangerous pursuits, their landlady would fret over domestic health and safety. Sherlock did a marvellous job of the decorations and managed to make only two disparaging remarks on the topic of pagan traditions, converted into convenient religious rip offs. He looked like a 1920s Art Deco painting, standing on a chair in his plain black trousers and a white shirt, Mrs Hudson's thick, burgundy, plush curtains setting off his fair complexion while the lights, attached along the curtain's rail, illuminated his face and glazed his curls. Then Sherlock smiled at the masses of short people below and looked around the decorated living room. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.” John remembered.

His thoughts return to the suburban landscape in front of his eyes. Lights are flickering from almost every window now, repelling the early darkness of the winter. John thinks it’d be nice to get another lamp for their sitting room, or maybe for the kitchen. He muses where it’d be best to put it, then wonders whether if they did get a Christmas tree, where would it be best to put it. While his eyes follow the movements of the curtains being drawn by the smaller figure in the tasteful lights’ display house, his phone beeps again. John’s heart does a masterful somersault and then knocks sharply in his chest. A teenager, indeed.

It’s only a message from one of his mates from the Army. Another John. Wishing him a Merry Christmas and asking for his new address, because he’s lost it. John remembers talking his namesake through his wife’s difficult pregnancy. The man would go to John, tension twitching on his face, with a print-out of the latest info the doctors back home had given to his wife. And John would sit with him and point, explain to the best of his abilities and try to be both honest and reassuring, which at one point seemed almost impossible. But he somehow managed it. He felt as if he had lived through that pregnancy, too. His mate must have felt the same, because when his wife gave birth to a fragile but healthy baby girl, the two Johns shared a bottle of scotch alone, and since then John has always got beautiful, handmade Christmas cards, signed by three people.

He starts typing the familiar digits and letters: 2-2-1-B B-a-k-e-r S-t-r-e-e-t and each time his finger presses a button, a knot unties at John’s very core. He feels a mixture of contentment and pride that this is his home, of impatience to be back there and of a fierce sense of security. Gratitude, too, that there is a place to be back to. Where he wants to be back to...

John blinks at the screen and back into awareness of the present and finishes his message automatically. All his circuits are busy processing. He hits the “send” button and thinks of other John and his wife, and their daughter, and of the family across the street. Next thing, he’s on his phone again, checking info on trains and connections, then throwing the few items he’s taken out of his bag back into it.

***

Harriet doesn’t take well John's sudden announcement that he’s going home. Mostly because John can’t really articulate to her his reasons to do so; he’s having a hard time articulating them to himself, but the urge is so clear, John doesn’t need justification. At this point he’s actually wondering not why he’s going home, but why he hasn’t already done it. Later on the train he gets to the bottom of this and asks himself why he left in the first place. He didn’t want to so badly. And Sherlock…

 _Sometimes you really can’t see the wood from the trees_ , John thinks.

Harry asked if Sherlock had gone back home earlier, too, and John hesitated. Was it better to tell her yes and give her a more rational reason for his change of plans? It was curious whether his sister would be more offended if John preferred spending Christmas in Sherlock’s company over hers or if he would rather spent Christmas alone than with her. At the end he went with the truth and told her Sherlock would be back on the following night. “But you’ve got Caroline and you know I’ve never been keen on holidays, Harry. It’ll do me good to have the house to myself and catch up with some stuff. I could do with some peace and quiet.”

It hadn’t been all a lie. He did intend to catch up with some stuff and he did mean it that she and Caroline didn’t need him to have a good Christmas. He might have exaggerated a bit about wanting to have the flat to himself.

It’s a long journey. What usually takes an hour, takes nearly three times as long on Christmas day and it is gone seven o’clock when John finally arrives at the front door of his home. There's no traffic at all; Baker Street is very quiet and eerily illuminated—light reflected by the snow and some traces of fog have mixed to create an almost Victorian setting. The only sign it's the twenty-first century are the Christmas lights, visible on some windows. John's breath is coming out in warm miniature clouds. He inhales deeply, then exhales, while he's rummaging through his pockets for his keys and is savouring the silent night.

And then just like that John really knows that it's Christmas. He hasn't felt like that since he was a small boy and his father used to play old Christmas songs on their gramophone. His throat tightens for the first time since the morning at the cemetery. But there is some sweetness, too, a sense of peace both the scenery and the memory bring. Maybe it's because he's finally come home.

He knows he is tired and the time spent in various empty carriages hasn’t done wonders to his now openly admitted regret he is coming back to an empty house. But he is still glad he’s here and it’s only twenty-four hours after all. Actually that’ll give him some time to come up with a foolproof plan how to cover his tracks and dispel any suspicions he came home earlier. It won’t be easy, hell no. But he’ll have to try. It’s one thing to have warm and yearning feelings of belonging, it’s another to sit down and confess them to the person they are part and parcel with.

The next instance throwing dust in Sherlock’s eyes becomes the least of John’s concerns. Because now that he has turned the corner up the stairs, John notices a thin sliver of light at the threshold of their door. Before he even has the chance to consider the implications of that, the door opens in a flash and John looks up directly at Sherlock’s completely unguarded face. John's own face has always been an open book to Sherlock, so as they stare at each other some silent confessions do take place after all.

“You’re back,” John says after a few seconds, something akin to awe managing to sneak into his voice.

“Ever the stickler for stating the obvious, but yes. I’m back.” Sherlock’s own voice could put the rustle of silk to shame.

Just to be on the safe side and because men don’t gaze into each other’s eyes but talk, preferably about solid, factual stuff, John checks. “Everything all right? Did you have to come back earlier because of the case?”

Sherlock has the exact same look on his face which he has when he’s got a lot more important things on his mind. His answer confirms that.

“Yes. What? Er, no. I mean no.” He shakes his head, frowning. “I mean there is the case now, but I didn’t come back because of that.”

“Then what happened?” John asks, stomach muscles becoming taut in anticipation.

“I could ask you the same question.”

John should have seen this coming, really, if his poor brain wasn’t busy tingling. He opts for deflection.

“Do you mind if we get in? Dying for a cuppa.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

They walk in and John looks at Sherlock’s back, transfixed by the light catching on the material of Sherlock’s gown as he moves towards the kitchen. There’s a bizarre feeling that takes hold of John and he doesn’t have the power to resist it. Sherlock is _real_ ; he is for real, and he is here, at their home, making tea in their kitchen. He is making noises and he isn’t anywhere else but here. John goes to the kitchen door, dropping his bag on the way, and looks again, checks again—yep, real.

There’s a powerful wave of _something_ , something that has started taking shape when John was standing by the window at Harry's, lost in his memories; something indefinable but wonderful, belly-deep and wholesome. John is swept away, but he doesn’t care one whit. He doesn’t care he is staring, either, because what is one more stare compared to the discovery that one year ago this man wasn’t in his life and now it’s like he’s always been there and what’s more important, he’ll _have to_ always be there, because the alternative just won't do. No.

“No biscuits, and there are only three tea bags left so we need that, too. Oh, and the bread's got mould—” Sherlock is talking mundane talk and John loves it so much, it hurts. Sherlock is going on, oblivious. “I’ve started another shopping list; where is it…There, you ha—”

“You don’t expect me to go shopping now?” John interrupts him, in part because he needs to get back in the game, in part because this would not be by far Sherlock’s most unreasonable expectation of him.

“Of course not, everything’s closed now,” Sherlock says, indignant, then adds. “Although there’s the Tesco Express and it might be open, but I doubt it you fancy a walk all the way there and um…You don’t have to go anywhere. You must be tired.”

“A bit. No. I’m alright. But not going.”John is aware he’s incoherent, but he’s grateful he is talking at all.

Sherlock nods. Then he looks aside, then quickly back at John, then he’s suddenly making quite a study of the tap of the sink. While his eyes do their odd dance routine, he unconsciously pouts a bit, and John is just glad to have a mug where he could hide the eruption of emotion on his own face. Sherlock returns his attention to the list in his hand, clears his throat and waves it to make a point.

“Tomorrow then, but it has to be tomorrow. I need the carrots—make sure you get…Okay, it says about fifty here, but get sixty just in case.”

“Don’t tell me—we’re starting a rabbit farm.”

Sherlock looks at John as if _John_ is the main provider of preposterous occurrences in their household.

“It’s an experiment I’ve been thinking of conducting for ages and now is as good a time as any,” he says. “Rabbits shag and reproduce with frightening speed; we don’t want them in the flat. Besides, I prefer bees.”

“We’re not getting bees.”

“Of course, we’re not.” Sherlock frowns at John. “Not in the winter anyway. What is the matter with you today?”

John giggles. It’s small and nervous, but it’s shamelessly a giggle. Sherlock stares at him for a few long seconds, without a single blink, head tilted just that bit. Then he emits a chuckle.

“Let’s go and sit down,” he says. “The floor is freezing. I only got back a couple of hours ago and the heating hasn’t picked up yet. Here, where is that fridge magnet I gave you—”

“It’s in my pocket,” John blurts out and his eyes widen. This is what happens when there’s no bloody auto-censorship. He bitterly curses his treacherous mouth. Oh, what the hell. He tentatively reaches in his pocket and takes out the magnet, then hands it over to Sherlock with his arm fully outstretched as if he’s a school-boy in front of the Principal.

Or as if he’s handing Sherlock a vital piece of evidence. Which, judging by Sherlock’s blazingly curious eyes, John is.

Sherlock hesitates, then takes the magnet. He examines it; his long fingers trace the same outlines John’s shorter ones have had for the last few days. Whatever he deduces from it, it doesn't get waved in front of John's face in triumph, but Sherlock's eyes, when they briefly meet John’s, are soaring.

“Shall I use it for the list or…”

“You can use it for the list.” John smiles. Sherlock struts to the fridge—John ponders for a second how anyone could manage to strut within the space of their kitchen—and the magnet finally gets to fulfil its purpose. Well, at least the purpose its manufacturers intended for it; aside from that it’s been doing a great job.

They go back to the sitting room and John takes a proper look around. He notices that only one of the lamps is on and yet there’s some extra glow in the air. Just when he’s ready to attribute that to his own perceptions, he spots a short stretch of fairy-lights, of the plain kind, hanging down between the two drawn curtains. It actually looks quite nice, as if the curtains came with an illuminated line of embroidery along their inner edge. John just points at them with an enquiring look. Sherlock shrugs.

“I got them for Mrs Hudson from a shop at Victoria. She seems to like this sort of thing and these are not festive so she could have them all year round.”

“And then?” John prompts when Sherlock doesn’t elaborate further.

“And then I thought I’d test them to see if they worked,” Sherlock says, eyes darting about. “And I realized she was not going to be back for another two days and, um, I thought why not. What do you think?”

“Very nice. Very nice indeed.”

“Oh. Good.” Sherlock is relieved and isn’t doing a good job hiding it.

John continues his examination of his surroundings. The TV is on, the sound muted. They're showing that film where Hugh Grant plays the Prime Minister; John had to watch it at Harry’s last year. There’s also that actor in it, who was in _The Office_ and who looks like John, or so a few people have told John.

“He does look like you a lot; I’ve been watching him. Although at present I can only talk about the face,” Sherlock says, while John is witnessing how his supposed look-a-like pretends to be having sex with a sweet-looking girl. Naked. He’s naked.

Colour blossoms at the tip of John’s ears.

His eyes quickly move along and lo and behold—another change. The skull is sporting a green paper hat from a Christmas cracker.

John walks over to it and he’s already grinning. The skull grins back, and it looks a bit tipsy to John. He points at the hat.

“Did you pull a cracker by yourself just so you could put the hat on the skull?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says. “I put one side of the cracker between its teeth and then pulled at the other.”

“Why don’t you have a hat?”

“Because the skull couldn’t pull a cracker for its own hat and I gave it mine. It’s earned it.”

John shakes his head. At the surreal mental image of Sherlock Holmes, the nightmare of criminals and policemen alike, the hidden force behind the high rate of resolved crimes Scotland Yard has had for some time, a proper genius and a madman to boot, arranging the end of a Christmas cracker in the skull’s mouth, probably with a very serious expression on his face, and then pulling. At the fact that they’ve just had yet another conversation that could easily find place in any _very_ abstract independent film, but it’s made total sense to John, and this is his life now. He quite likes it, too. Another giggle starts forming in his chest when he wonders if Sherlock read the joke out loud to the skull afterwards. Instead, he asks a more pertinent question.

“Why did you even want to put a hat on—”

Sherlock crosses the room and stands in front of John. He looks in the eyes, searching, and says, “The skull was filling in for you.”

John is overwhelmed with emotions. With the emotions of the last few hours…or is it the last few days…or maybe months. He isn’t a man who gets overwhelmed easily, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself now. He looks at Sherlock for some help, which is patently idiotic—looking at Sherlock for help when it comes to emotional matters, oh God. But at the moment, again, it makes perfect sense to John. Sherlock’s eyes bore into his like the first time they met, but this time Sherlock offers an insight into himself.

“I came back because I hated it there, which, obviously, isn’t news,” he says quietly. “What was novel is that I did something about it. I wouldn’t have gone if—I didn’t want to be here alone at first, but I went there and then I thought I’d much rather be here alone. There was the case to think about—I don’t have high hopes for it, because cousin Beth’s husband is marginally less insufferable than Mycroft AND he is a big drama queen, so a full match there—but it might be worth to look into it. So…I came home. To look into it. And to escape my brother and most of the rest.” He pauses, considers, his eyes not leaving John’s for a second. “I thought I didn’t have to be there anymore, now that I can be here.”

John might not be the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree but once he catches on, he knows exactly what he needs to say. One day he hopes he’ll catch up on what he needs to do, too. But for now…

“I didn’t want to go to Harry’s,” he says, mirroring Sherlock’s confession. “I didn’t think about it, though, I sort of just…went. That’s what I’ve always done; habit is a funny thing, you know.” He pauses and his next words are carefully void of any reproach. “Did you want to—Sherlock, you should have just told me to stay in London and spend Christmas wi—and stay here.”

“I can’t tell you what to do on Christmas!” Sherlock says with feeling.

“Why not? You do it the rest of the time?”There is humour in John’s voice, but Sherlock looks serious. He’s got that air about him again, the same air he had when John was leaving. (Gosh, was that only yesterday?) John suddenly remembers this thing here, this...closeness, this bond—it's all so new for his friend, and if _John_ is having trouble processing, then Sherlock must be all over the place. John perceived his uncertainty, his fragility, but wrongly attributed it to something physical. Just like with his own misplaced guilt—it had nothing to do with buying fruit and all to do with leaving Sherlock behind. John picked up the messages but he’s decoding them only now.

Meanwhile Sherlock is staying put and quiet. John takes charge this time.

“We’re staying home for Christmas next year,” he says flatly. “And for New Year’s this year, if that’s all right with you. I’ll be working but I’ll be back in the early evening. Which reminds me—you need to tell me on what day you’re planning to make me polish shoes for living so that I take time off. And it’d be nice if I knew more about the case or my stupidity won’t be just an act.”

Sherlock is looking at John as if John’s just produced the _Encyclopaedia of Unsolved Murder Cases_ or as if he’s just single-handedly invented a way to get Mycroft’s tongue stick to his palette. John finds it a nice change to be the one gawked at. He stays still patiently for another few seconds, indulging Sherlock—some things will never change—and then finally reaches and removes the eyelash he’s been watching on Sherlock’s left cheekbone since the moment they walked in. Then John drags his feet to his chair and sinks into it, sighing contentedly.

“John?” He hears the familiar deep, rumbling sound of his name, and smiles. He lifts his eyes to find the voice coupled with a brave, adventurous look if there ever was one.

“Mm?” John says.

“Next year, I was thinking…” Sherlock begins. “Maybe we could go to one of those drinks events? I mean, there’ll have to be some face control beforehand, because as—”

“Sherlock.” John cuts him. An impossibly intense pair of pale eyes is focused on him, waiting for _him_ , and John hears bells jingling, smells wine mulling…and thinks that a year is a long time.

“We’ll go to one of those drinks events,” he finishes. “Now sit down and tell me about the case."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd so apologies for any mistakes. It is also only the second piece of Sherlock fanfic I wrote, so, again, I apologize for any roughness of text. This was written for last Christmas; there are more Christmas fics coming ahead this month; be warned!:)Original entry at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/3129.html


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